THURSDAY'S TRIAL

March 6, 2008

My ride to work lost his father a few days ago.  He left for Jamaica this morning.  My prayers are with him. 

No ride to work means that my commute takes on a higher level of difficulty.  I love where I live, in a suburb about 35 miles outside of Detroit.  My only problem is that I have now been drafted into the ranks of “commuter,” a position I have tried to change since moving 3+ years ago. However, jobs are scarce and my commute continues.

So, here I stand in downtown Detroit, at the cold, snowy corner of Cass and Lafayette, waiting on my third bus.  After catching 2 suburban buses, only to arrive at this juncture, I am still an hour away from my ball and chain of a job. 

My journey began at 6:14 a.m., across the street from the complex in which my warm and cozy apartment is housed. It is now 7:15 a.m. and I stand here freezing and becoming delusional; thinking that maybe if I stare at the street long enough, the bus will appear by symbiosis.  It doesn’t work.

I brought along a book of short stories by noted author, Ann Beattie. I try to read while waiting for the bus.  The biting cold seeping through my stylishly thin suede gloves makes it impossible to concentrate.  I abandon my attempt at passing the time creatively; quickly finishing the story I began reading during my suburban commute, closing the book and putting it back inside my bag.

So, here I stand, surveying my immediate surroundings as commuters from all over trickle into downtown Detroit during the early morning hours.  I watch as they exit their cars, sorely underdressed for the weather, stumbling over the dirty little snow-capped mountains that block walkways and turn street curbs into mini obstacle courses.  I watch as these commuters walk against the light, making their way to the giant bank building across the street; the same building where I used to work—what seems like eons ago.

Behind me, the front tires of a silver, midsized vehicle spin in the snow. The driver is trying to follow the parking attendant’s instructions to get as close to the car in front of her as possible.  Once satisfied, he raises his hand to signal success.  On the building connected to this lot hangs a sign that reads MONTHLY PARKING, Low Rates Available, call… then it gives the digits one is to dial for further info.  I begin to dwell on my lack of a reliable auto, thereby making it futile for me to call the number.

Finally, my bus arrives.  I board and pay my fare.  As I walk to an available seat, my purse accidentally brushes the arm of a miserable looking woman who immediately moves away, mumbling some obscenity.  Once I’m seated, she looks back at me (possibly to make sure that I know her verbiage is directed at me).  I immediately let this incident role off my back and think to myself, lady, if you only knew…

As I endure the bumpy ride to my destination, I ponder the fact that after rising at 5:00 a.m., getting dressed and arriving at the bus stop by 6:10 a.m., I’m still going to be thirty minutes late for work.  And if God does not intervene with some great financial miracle, I’ll have to get up tomorrow and do it all again.

This is why I write.